


A Long Time to Become Young

by DreamingPagan



Series: Cup of Their Deserving [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Absolute fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, birthday-related fluffiness, but can be read as a stand-alone but for one line, but mostly this is tooth-rotting fluff, gentle fluffy smut, just husbands being husbands, set in the same universe as Cup of Their Deserving, shading into occasional angst bc well it's me writing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: Thomas and James have both had a succession of truly terrible years, punctuated by awful days that should have been among the happiest in their lives. After they are reunited, James sets about trying to rectify that, one lost birthday at a time.





	A Long Time to Become Young

**Author's Note:**

  * For [figmentof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/figmentof/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Jane! Hope it was a really good one!

It starts on Thomas’ first birthday as a free man.

“Happy birthday,” James says, grinning ear to ear, and Thomas startles, and stares at the thing James holds out, suddenly breathless because, because -

He has forgotten that this… can be. People, he thinks in a moment of strange clarity, have birthdays. People have relatives that celebrate the day of their birth - and Thomas is a person, now, again. He has forgotten that to be a person is to be celebrated now and again - it is the only explanation he has for his absolute shock and wonder at the words, and it suddenly occurs to him.

He has missed James’ birthday. He has missed it, because he has forgotten to mark every single one of his own for the past ten years - had, in fact, stopped trying to guess at the date approximately after his third Christmas in Bethlem, and now -

He is - happy. He is amazed - truly, utterly amazed, and frustrated with himself, and the jumble of emotions leaves him speechless, simply staring at James while he searches for words, and comes up blank.

“Thomas?” James asks after a moment, the grin sliding off his face, replaced with concern. “What’s the matter?” 

And Thomas - cannot articulate it. It has been months since the last time he felt unable to speak, and this has nothing to do with that - this is nothing, nothing like the fear that had filled him for so many years at the thought of being heard - and yet Thomas cannot find the words he wants to say. Instead, he looks at his husband, and is almost surprised when tears well in the corners of his eyes, because he would have sworn he had cried all the tears of joy he had left in him. He has not - he knows that now, and instead of answering, he reaches forward and catches James in a hug, and buries his face in his shoulder, and laughs as he weeps while James raises his arms to return the embrace, hampered though he is by the object in his right hand. 

“Jesus, Thomas,” he says, and his voice is filled with relief. “For a moment I thought there was something wrong!”

Thomas shakes his head, and then pulls back just far enough to kiss James’ temple.

“I’d forgotten,” he confesses. “It’s been so long - God, what is this? Number forty-three?”

It takes the look of horror on James’ face to remind him that this is an unusual sort of statement, and for just a moment, Thomas feels something like embarrassment redden his cheeks, and he looks down. 

“There were no holidays,” he says, voice gone a little thick, “in Bethlem, and on the plantation there was only Easter and Christmas - and Lent, God, as if we didn’t face privation enough! Mr. Oglethorpe, you see, was a religious man, and most of us -” He looks up, and sees James’ face, and then sighs. 

“There were no birthdays,” he explains. “We were none of us keen to recall how long it had been since we’d been - taken,” he says, and then buries his face again in James’ shoulder. When he next looks up, James’ face is doing an odd thing, moving swiftly from horror to heartbreak to absolute fury and then he is wrapping his arms around Thomas again, fully as hard as the first time they saw each other here in the Maroons’ village, and Thomas thinks once again how very lucky - how incredibly blessed he is to have made it here, to this place, with this man, safe and loved at last. 

“I owe you a large number of gifts,” James says at last, a quiet murmur against Thomas’ ear, and Thomas snorts, and draws back a bit.

“You’ve given me everything I could dream of asking for,” he says, and James shakes his head. 

“Thomas - Christ,” he says, and reaches up to touch Thomas’ hair - to pet his cheek, to gently cradle the back of his neck with one hand. 

“You’ve given me myself back,” Thomas says. “I’m standing here because of you. If you think that doesn’t make us more than even -”

“It doesn’t,” James says. “Not by a long shot. You forget - I’ve seen the state of your wardrobe.” 

Thomas cannot help but grin. It’s becoming an old jest between them - and an old point of contention, and Thomas revels in the comforting familiarity of it. He has points of contention again. He has James, and the rest of their lives before them, and the silly fool still thinks he owes Thomas anything at all, and well - he does, in fact, need more and better clothing, but that’s not the point.

“I’m reasonably certain I can afford my own clothing now,” he says, and the words feel good - really, truly bloody fantastic, because it has also been so long since Thomas had money, but he is newly re-endowed with the revenues from his father’s estates. His estates, now, he thinks once again, and he has never been a vindictive man, but he cannot help but feel satisfaction at the knowledge that the vicious old bastard must be rolling in his watery grave at the use Thomas has put those funds to, these past several months. 

“And I can afford,” James says, “to spend the next thirty or forty years making certain that you never lack for anything ever again, so you’ll forgive me if I do precisely that.” He extricates himself from Thomas’ embrace carefully, one hand still lingering on Thomas’ thigh, and he holds out the object in his hand. “Open it,” he demands, and Thomas takes it from him with a huff of laughter, and then sits, observing it from all angles, poking at it gently.

“Thomas!” James all but groans, and Thomas laughs, and undoes the ribbon holding the carefully wrapped paper together. And then - 

“Oh James,” he murmurs. “James - my own James, you did not -” 

“Just published this year,” James assures him, and Thomas strokes the cover of The Odyssey, raises the book to his nose, smells it. He turns it over in his hand, feels the weight of it - and then turns to James, eyes brimming, and flings himself at his husband, catching him in another tight hug.

“It’s wonderful,” he assures him, and James laughs. 

“I thought it seemed appropriate,” he says, and Thomas agrees wholeheartedly, because here they are on an island kingdom, and it has been ten years, but finally Thomas is home, come over the sea after being held away from the ones who love him for so long.   
  


**************************************************************

“Happy birthday,” James whispers one day several months later as he embraces Thomas from behind, and it takes Thomas a while to comprehend the words, because he knows - knows good and well - that James  _ knows  _ when his birthday is. 

“Beg pardon?” he says, and James takes him by the shoulders, and turns him round - and Thomas stares, dumbstruck, at the object in James’ hand, and then looks up to James’ face. 

“I thought,” James says, clearing his throat, “-well, you said you hadn’t had a birthday celebration in all those years. And I thought -” He looks vaguely embarrassed, but he’s still smiling, and he holds out the bundle - not wrapped, this time, and Thomas is not certain how James would have done, given that the object in his hands is a blade - one that matches James’ own, Thomas notes, down to the burnished shine of the hilt, and there is a belt to go with it - one, Thomas is quite sure, will buckle about his waist as perfectly as if he had been standing about while the craftsman created it to be measured, and he cannot help but wonder exactly when James had had the time or been so utterly devious as to get Thomas’ exact height and reach as he must have done to be confident in his order to the swordsmith. He has experienced too many of James’ lectures on the value of picking the right blade to think otherwise. 

“James -” he starts, and then smiles, and turns. He has been saving this - for a rainy day or a particularly good one, perhaps - or for this, apparently, and he rummages around in his trunk for a moment before coming up with a small something - nothing much, he thinks, and yet -

“Thomas - what have you got -?” James asks, and Thomas holds out the journal - leather-bound, embossed, and quite handsome if he does say so himself - that he bought for James the last time they were in Port Royal. 

“I recalled that you used to like to record your thoughts,” he says, and he can see James’ hands tracing over the leather, sees his husband’s fingers twitch, and he laughs.

“Open it,” he urges, and watches James do so - and then read the inscription.

“Thomas,” James says after a moment, and Thomas can hear the catch in his voice. “I -” He shakes his head, and then crosses the short distance between them. “I love you,” he says, voice absolutely shaking with sincerity, and kisses Thomas until he can barely breathe, his tongue attempting to caress all the places in James’ mouth he loves best, their teeth bumping gently for a moment, and they laugh together, breathless and happy and then deepen the kiss once more. Thomas winds a hand in James’ hair, and feels his husband’s hand come to cradle the back of his head, and he marvels once again at the silken strands that spill over his fingers, even as his other hand moves to James’ waist. He moves his hand upward, exploring, asking permission - and James’ hand catches his.

“The bed,” James says firmly. “I’m not doing this against the wall this time, or if I am, then we’re damn well finding a more comfortable wall.” 

Thomas laughs, breathless, and bends - and then James is laughing out loud, snorting, in fact, as Thomas moves him to the bed, and it is some time before any more serious discussion is had.

They are lying together, still naked in bed, when Thomas asks the question that’s been on his mind since James presented the gift.

“Which birthday is this, then?” he asks, and James raises one eyebrow. 

“What?” he asks, and Thomas rises to one elbow. 

“Which birthday are we celebrating?” he asks, and James looks thoughtful for a moment. 

“Which one would you like it to be?” he asks, and Thomas hardly has to consider the matter. There are a few birthdays he would like wiped from the record - a few dozen awful memories he would like to expunge, and he suspects James is aware and has planned exactly that. 

“Number thirty-three,” he answers, and James frowns, worried. 

“Any particular reason?” he asks, and Thomas nods. 

“It was an awful one,” he answers. “I recall it. I thought -” He stops, and then starts again. “I thought I would never know any of this again,” he answers, and James draws him closer, and kisses his temple, and he is home, and safe, and warm again, and the awful memory is fading, because here, now - this is going to be his thirty-third birthday from now on, this moment, not that. He is determined.

“Thirty-three it is, then,” James answers. “Bloody awful one for me as well. I much prefer this.” 

Thomas gives a hum, and then tucks his nose under his husband’s chin, and then James yelps as Thomas pinches his bottom. 

“What the hell was that for?” he asks, and Thomas grins. 

“If we’re going to pretend we’re in our thirties again, we may as well do the thing properly,” he answers, and then James is cursing for a different reason as Thomas’ hand closes around him, and he bucks upward.

“Oh good,” Thomas says, and then he’s being rolled onto his back, and the rest of his thirty-third birthday in redux continues along very well indeed. 

****************************************************************

“Merry Christmas,” James murmurs in his ear one night, and Thomas cries out helplessly, his senses overwhelmed, his eyes covered with a blindfold, his body bowed off the bed and James’ fingers doing things that would make lesser men weep. 

“M - Merry Christmas, Lieutenant,” he barely manages to gasp out, and James gives a chuckle of admiration at his dedication to the fiction they’ve agreed upon for the evening. 

“Which one is this?” he asks, and Thomas gasps. 

“Seventeen - ten!” He shouts the last word as James does something with his fingers inside him that makes Thomas see stars. “Seventeen-ten and I'm so glad you're he-ere -!” 

He keens, and comes, and James follows a moment or so later, then whips the blindfold off Thomas’ face and kisses his face over and over again as he weeps, and clings to James. He does not care what the date truly is now - all that matters is that he has spent this night with the man he loves, and this has been a good, good night indeed. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and James murmurs it back to him, and together, they both begin to mumble a plan for their next reclaimed holiday.


End file.
